


the whole of my soul

by Eicas



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (at this point you can just assume all the tags have 'sort of' after them), AU (sort of), Gen, Narrator Chara, Pre-Game(s), Role Reversal (Sort of), Self Harm, Suicidal Ideation, chara is my problematic fave and they are not an irredeemable monster, non-binary chara and frisk (because. d u h ), takes place when chara lives with the dreemurrs, your general chara warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9611222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eicas/pseuds/Eicas
Summary: "Chara has always known they would go insane one day. It seemed a logical conclusion: there was obviouslysomethingwrong with them, and besides, weren’t these things inherited? It was only a matter of time before they started seeing things that weren’t real.When they wake up one morning face to face with a child maybe a year or so older than they are, they’re not exactly surprised. Caught of guard, certainly, frightened, maybe (though they’d be loath to admit it), but all in all, their confusion only lasts for a moment before they concludeoh. It’s happened.and shrug off their covers to go get breakfast."Chara and Frisk, in a slightly different constellation.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueseawitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueseawitch/gifts).



> I've been sitting on the vast majority of this fic for several months now. It's not going anywhere else, and I _needed_ to get it out there before the sight of it sitting unfinished in my drafts folder drove _me_ insane. 
> 
> Parts of it I love. Parts of it I definitely do not. I hope the good will make up for the bad. 
> 
> (@blueseawitch: I also hope it's not super weird for me to register this one as a 'gift' for you when a] it's been in the works for a long, long time, and b] we have not actually talked that much. BUT CONSIDER THIS: 1. i am hurting our fave, which makes it relevant, and 2. think of it as an open invitation to join me in the garbage bin whenever. wheee.)

Chara has always known they would go insane one day. It seemed a logical conclusion: there was obviously _something_ wrong with them, and besides, weren’t these things inherited? It was only a matter of time before they started seeing things that weren’t real.

When they wake up one morning face to face with a child maybe a year or so older than they are, they’re not exactly surprised. Caught of guard, certainly, frightened, maybe (though they’d be loath to admit it), but all in all, their confusion only lasts for a moment before they conclude _oh. It’s happened._ and shrug off their covers to go get breakfast.

The ghost child - _their hallucination_ , Chara reminds themself, it wouldn’t do to let themself forget it isn’t real - trails after them. Chara does their best not to acknowledge them, but they can’t help but be curious, so they compromise by sneaking glances from the corner of their eye as they wake Asriel up (by pulling his sheets off the bed so he falls onto the floor and laughing as he shouts in indignation) and waits for him to get ready for breakfast.

They’re about the same height as Chara, though it’s hard to tell, what with how they can’t stop and have a good look, and the child occasionally seems taller. After a few furtive looks, they realise this is because they’re not always touching the ground - sometimes they float up a few inches above it, and then it’s as if they remember themself and comes back down to walk normally for a bit longer, until they lose concentration again, and up they go. Chara wonders why they don’t just keep floating all the time - it’s what _they’d_ do, if they were a ghost - but then they remember the child is just a figment of their imagination, and those don’t have to make sense.

Their hair is darker than Chara’s own, and fluffier, looking like it hasn’t seen a brush in quite some time, and they’re wearing a sweater that actually looks pretty cosy, even though purple and blue is not a colour combination Chara would’ve chosen for themself. Their nose is a bit flatter, skin a bit darker - though that’s not difficult to achieve, what with how frustratingly pale Chara is.

The ghost child seems as curious as they are, looking around in the room with fascination. They seem especially captivated by the art wall, where Chara and Asriel have both taped up the best of their drawings. (Chara doesn’t blame them for their interest. There’s some pretty solid crayon work on that wall.)

When Asriel is finally ready to go, the child follows them out of the room.

Through the entire day, they never leave Chara’s side, quietly watching as they go through lessons, lunch, more lessons, and playing with Asriel. Chara _tries_ not to pay them any mind, but their attention keeps straying. No one else has seen them, which means they really _are_ just in Chara’s mind. They wonder if it’s going to get worse, and how quickly. They wonder if this is a sign that they need to act, now, or if they can keep pressing their luck, just a bit longer.

Maybe it’ll be gone in the morning.

“Chara, are you alright?” Asriel asks them (tentatively - he knows they don’t like that kind of direct question, not when they’re supposed to actually tell the truth) when they’ve lost at tic-tac-toe for the third time in a row.

“I’m fine,” they automatically reply. He looks sceptical. They give him their best attempt at a reassuring smile. “Just a bit distracted. Let’s do something else?”

“Sure,” he agrees, no convincing required.

Behind them the ghost child’s gaze feels like it’s burning a hole through the back of their head. Chara does not turn around.

 

* * *

 

 

The child is not gone in the morning, or the next day, or the day after that. The hallucination doesn’t go away, and it doesn’t _change;_ the child looks the same, they don’t do anything other than follow Chara around with a frustratingly hard-to-read face, and they’re still silent as the grave.

For a few days Chara trudges along like usual, determined to ignore their annoyingly persistent guest until either they disappear or Chara completely loses it, whichever comes first. The thought is starting to settle in - it might not be too bad a way to go, when you think about it, but they’d rather the Dreemurrs remembered them clear-headed. Selfish as it might be, they’d like it if somebody thought well of them when they’re gone.

They’ve started thinking of how to leave their goodbyes.

They try writing a letter, because that seems as good a place as any to start. Only how do you _begin_ a letter like that? They find a bottle of ink and a brush, because that seems more dignified than using crayons, but that doesn’t solve the problem of what to write _in it,_ or what to do with it once it’s done. Do you give it to them before, or after? Lay it somewhere they’ll be sure to find it, but not until it’s too late? They’ve no idea.

In their frustration they manage to knock over the ink bottle. It splatters over the desk, ruining the paper, and getting all over Chara’s sleeves. They curse under their breath.

“That’s going to stain,” the child remarks idly, tilting their head as they look at the mess. Chara startles.

“You talk,” they blurt out without thinking. The child blinks.

“You _can_ see me,” they say, matter-of-factly. “I was starting to wonder.”

Chara looks away, suddenly furious, and sets about cleaning up. They decide not to acknowledge the child again. Nothing good can come of it.

 

* * *

 

 

They scrub at their sleeve over the bathroom sink, tugging it back down to cover up their scars every time it slides up their arms. It’s not a conversation they want to have, even with a figment of their imagination. They’ll have to be more careful now that they have an observer.

With some effort the ink is mostly gone, shirt almost as clean as it was that morning, and they sigh, relaxing.

When they look up at the mirror they are the only one reflected, even though the child is standing right behind them.

“It’s you,” the child says, with a strange tilt to their voice. Chara tries to resist responding for all of three seconds before they give in to their nature. Silence has never been their strong suit.

“Of course it’s me,” they mutter. “Who else would it be?”

Infuriatingly enough, there’s no reply.

 

* * *

 

 

Their resolve to be more careful barely lasts a week.

It isn’t even anything big that breaks them. It’s just… it’s been a while, and they wake up and their skin is buzzing and through the day it doesn’t get any better and Asgore and Toriel have said to just come to them when they’re feeling bad but it’s not like they could help either way and Chara doesn’t want to _bother_ them--

They need the clarity. That’s all.

Luckily no conversation follows. Their unwanted companion is not much of a talker - they made a sound of protest when they first realised what Chara was about to do, but they fell silent once it became clear that they weren’t going to listen, and they haven’t asked why they do it. Chara thinks maybe they understand.

The blood is startlingly red against their skin, the pale green of their shirt, soaking into the fabric and spreading out like a paintbrush dipped in water, only much slower, and Chara watches it with a habitual detachment. It’s pretty. They wish their shirt was white.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” the ghost child says. Chara shrugs, loose-limbed and relaxed. Their head lolls over the edge of the bed, so they see the child, and the room, upside-down. Nothing looks real from here. The child’s face is contorted into something sad and concerned and Chara doesn’t want to look at it anymore, so they roll their eyes so they don’t have to.

“It’s _fine_ ,” they mutter, trying to flap their hand dismissively, but ending up with it flopping down on their chest. “I’m _fine_ . You don’t have to look like that, it isn’t _dangerous_.”

“Liar,” the child says quietly. Chara huffs out a sharp laugh, but before they have time to retort Asriel barrels into the room, smile freezing on his face as soon as he sees them, and from then on they’re busy consoling him: _It was an accident, ‘Ree, I didn’t mean to. It doesn’t hurt, really! I’m okay- no, don’t tell mom, they don’t need to know - I trust_ **_you_ ** _, ‘Ree, only you, you’ll keep my secret, right? They don’t need to know. I didn’t mean to. I’m fine, really._

_I won’t do it again._

During that last sentence they glance up from Asriel, locking eyes with the child, who has not moved or looked away since he entered the room. There’s something wistful about them now, yearning, but they meet Chara’s gaze head-on, unwavering. This time they don’t have to say it out loud. It’s clear in their eyes what they’re thinking.

_Liar._

Chara tucks themself tighter in against Asriel’s side and lets him fuss over them, pretending it’s for their comfort and not for his. They do not look at the child again.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes keeping Asriel quiet is easy. Sometimes they can tell he’s not convinced, that he might let something slip if they don’t keep an eye on him, and that’s not allowed to happen. Those times they strip away the cajoling and the comforting until there’s only ice, ice, ice.

 _If you tell them I’ll never talk to you again, Asriel._ **_Never,_ ** _do you understand? I won’t want to play with you anymore, or draw, or tell stories. I’ll hate you forever._

“You don’t have to do that,” the child says, following one of those times, once Chara is satisfied Asriel _really won’t tell_ , pinky swear and all. Asriel is still sniffling.

“Shows what you know,” they mutter bitterly, low enough that Asriel won’t hear them. It’s almost strange that something born from Chara’s mind could ever be so naive.

 

* * *

 

 

Chara is in the garden, legs folded up under them on the grass. The Dreemurrs are inside, doing… something. Royal family stuff, probably. Chara wasn’t really paying attention when they left, just said they needed some time alone and that they’d be outside if anyone needed them. Inside was… crowded. Too loud, too small, too-

Their skin is buzzing again, heartbeat stuttery and strange in their chest.

They brought Asgore’s gardening knife with them when they left. It’s right next to them on the ground. Hovering a bit further away is the ghost child, fiddling with the bottom of their sweater.

“You’re not saying anything,” they points out after Chara’s sat in silence for several minutes, fingers clenched into fists resting on their knees.

“So what?”

Their nose crinkles. “It’s weird.”

Chara’s hand twitches. They press it down on top of the other one, does not let it drift towards the knife, however much they want to. “It’s not like I’ve anyone to talk to,” they say once it’s clear the child is waiting for a reply. “Asriel’s not here.”

“So talk to me instead,” the child says, face set in a determined frown that manages to reveal absolutely nothing about how they’re feeling (other than _stubborn_ , which, Chara thinks, may be a constant).

“What’s the point?” they say, idly picking at their fingernails. They eyes keep being drawn back to the knife - it’s for gardening, not for… anything else, but it’s sharp enough. Probably.

“Won’t get more scars to hide or explain away,” the child says levelly. “Less hassle.”

Chara shrugs. Fair, they guess.

“And if I _want_ more scars?”

“Then I can’t stop you,” the child replies. This time it’s their turn to shrug - and then they bring out the doomsday weapon, without any indication they know that’s what it is, voice still calm and even. “But you’ll make Asriel cry.”

A shudder goes through Chara and for a moment the buzzing is replaced by a terrible anger roaring up inside them. How dare they. How _dare_ they?

Their gaze snaps up from the knife, insults gathering like venom on their tongue, eyes blazing with rage. Chara will _break_ them, will tear into them until they find their weaknesses and-

The child does not so much as flinch when Chara looks at them, even with how evident their fury must be. They just meet Chara’s gaze head on. Like it was nothing at all.

The anger does not so much _fade_ as abruptly blink out of existence, leaving them feeling dizzy and strangely empty. _You’ll make Asriel cry._ The thought sits like a stone in them, heavy and immovable. The buzzing picks back up.

The grass tickles against the backs of their hands.

“You wouldn’t need to use the knife for most of this,” the child remarks. “I don’t think they’re rooted that deep.”

Chara nods automatically. They try to shake the strange feeling out of their shoulders, carefully push the knife aside, and then they take a deep breath, fingers digging into the earth instead of their thighs, ripping up weeds instead of their skin. By their side the child is humming, a wordless tune that despite repetitiveness isn’t annoying at all, just grounding. They’re anchored in the moment, roots giving way under their hands, separating the things that _should_ grow there from that which _shouldn’t_.

The buzzing underneath their skin recedes until it’s manageable. Until Chara can breathe again.

They’re not sure how much time passes, but when they lift their hands up they’re sore, and there’s dirt under their fingernails. Chara makes a face. It’s gonna be some effort to get clean enough to help Toriel with dinner.

Oh well.

“What’s your name?” says Chara, abruptly. Surprise flickers across the child’s face and Chara feels a spark of pride at having managed to dent that infuriating pokerface, but then the shock is replaced by joy, a smile like a sunrise, dazzling, breathtaking.

“Frisk,” they say, “My name is Frisk,” and it strikes a chord, a clear-toned bell somewhere inside Chara. They shake it off.

“That’s a stupid name,” Chara mutters, but the smile only grows brighter. They brush the grass off their clothes as best they can and head back home, stubbornly ignoring the child’s steady presence beside them.

_Frisk._

They’ve never heard that name before.

Why does it seem so familiar?

 

* * *

 

 

Frisk… isn’t bad company after that. They still don’t talk much (which is just as well because Chara is still very careful not to look at or talk to them when there’s people around), and they refuse to help Chara cheat at cards, but they smile a bit more often, and sometimes when they look at Asriel they seem almost as fond of him as Chara is.

(Sometimes they’ll look at Chara with an expression they can’t decipher. Sometimes they’ll go still and distant and somehow even _more_ unresponsive than they normally are. Sometimes when they look at Chara and Asriel and his parents there’s something in them that seems almost like longing, but even when Chara asks them about it they refuse to explain why.)

 

* * *

 

 

One day Chara catches them trying to pick up a pen. They’re sitting by the dining table with Asriel, paper and crayons strewn all over it. Asriel pokes them to catch their attention to show his drawing.

“ _Nice_ ,” they say, discreetly glancing over at Frisk to see their reaction as well - but Frisk isn’t looking. They’re focused entirely on their mission, teeth clenched around their lower lip and face stuck in a frown. They bring their hand down towards the pen, close their fingers around it - and they pass right through, knuckles scraping against the table. As Chara watches them, they try again. And again.

Chara frowns.

“Hey, Asriel,” they say, turning towards him and tilting their head to the side. “I’m thirsty. Could you get me a glass of water?”

“Um. Sure…?” He looks confused.

“Besides,” they add, “You should show Toriel that. It’s great.”

The confusion gives way to enthusiasm. “Yeah! Be right back.”

Chara hums in response, and as soon as he’s out of the room they turn their attention back to Frisk.

“What are you _doing_ ,” they hiss, scared to raise their voice even though there shouldn’t be anyone close enough to hear them.

Frisk doesn’t reply. (Other things they don’t do: stop trying.)

“Stop that,” Chara says, feeling strangely uncomfortable. “Just give up. It’s not gonna happen, you’re not - you’re not _real._ You’re not gonna be able to… _change_ anything.”

Frisk’s frown deepens, their movements suddenly choppier. “I don’t _do_ giving up,” they say.  There’s no hesitation, no sign of doubt.

It’s rattling.

Chara opens their mouth. “What do you-” they start, and then quickly clamps it shut as Asriel comes back. “Who are you talking to?” he asks.

Chara tears their eyes away from Frisk. “No one,” they say. “Just… thinking out loud.”

For a hallucination, it’s very persistent.

 

* * *

 

 

Frisk is being weird.

They’re never really _not_ being weird, but today they’re _extra_ weird, hovering around Chara and Asriel, talking more than they usually do, but not about anything important. It’s off-putting, especially when Chara can’t respond. They do their best to shrug it off and ignore the distraction. They’ve more important things to do; namely, working out how exactly baking works. They have to be quick, so it can be done before anyone comes home. It won’t be as nice if it’s not a surprise.

Frisk just keeps getting weirder and weirder throughout the process, and it gets increasingly difficult to ignore them.

“Don’t!” they burst, just as Chara’s about to drop the handful of flower petals into the batter. They startle, instinctively squeezing their hand tighter. Asriel sends them a quizzical look.

“What’s wrong, Chara?” he prods.

Chara glares at the child. They’re chewing on their bottom lip, arms crossed over their torso in lonely mimicry of a hug, sounding like they’re dragging each word out of a swamp when they speak, barely loud enough for Chara to hear them.

“...check the recipe again. It says _cups of butter,_ not buttercups.”

Chara patters over to the recipe book and exclaims softly. “Oh! ‘Ree, look. We read the recipe wrong…”

But Chara can’t keep themself from throwing furtive glances at Frisk every couple of seconds. They’re still tense and Chara wants to know _why_. Why’d they stop them? Why did they seem so invested? It can’t just be that the pie would’ve tasted bad; they seemed too anxious for it to be something that little.

In the end they wait until the pie is in the oven - Asriel can’t really do fire magic reliably enough yet - and they’ve both dusted the flour from their clothes to confront them. When Chara asks Frisk’s grip on their shoulders tightens, fingers digging into their arms.

“Buttercups are poisonous to monsters,” they say reluctantly.

Chara sees their life flashing before their eyes. They were gonna give that pie to Asgore, what if they’d _hurt_ him - and then everything grinds to a halt as they turn that thought over in their head, examining it.

“If it’s dangerous for monsters,”they says slowly, a plan gradually taking shape, “Do you think it’d be dangerous for humans too?”

“No,” Frisk says quickly. Their eyes are wide and innocent and - frightened.

Frisk is scared.

It’s as good a confirmation as any.

 

* * *

 

 

They want the monsters free. They want humanity _gone_ . This just might be a way to get everything they want all at once, and if Frisk doesn’t like it, well - it’s not like their opinion really _matters._ (Chara tells themself that they don’t care, even as Frisk makes their displeasure very clear without saying a single word, even as they stop talking to Chara entirely. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t _matter._ )

They are, after all, not real.

 

* * *

 

 

Only a few days later they’re in the garden, studiously ignoring Frisk’s silent presence beside them, intently whispering with Asriel, forgotten camcorder squeezed tightly between his paws.

“It’ll be okay, Asriel,” they tell him, heart pounding so hard they’re surprised their chest isn’t shaking (like their hands are). “We’ll set everyone free. We’ll make this right - you and I.”

He’s still hesitant, still doubtful, and he can’t be, because Chara needs this to _work._

“It won’t really be like dying, you know,” they say, beseechingly. “I won’t be _gone_ , not really. I’ll be a part of you. We’ll be together, forever.”

He takes a shaky breath, wipes his tears away, nods, and Chara is filled with grim satisfaction.

“Do you promise?” he asks, still trembling a little. Chara does their best to look genuine and trustworthy.

“Yes,” they lie. (They hope it’s a lie. They love Asriel, and maybe being that close to him could even make existence bearable for more than a few moments at a time, but… Monsters live so long, and Chara just wants their life to be over.

Besides; Asriel deserves much better than they could ever give him. He has a family that loves him. Once the monsters are free he’ll find other friends, once that at least come _close_ to deserving him. He’ll be fine. He will.

They have to believe that.)

 

* * *

 

 

“Don’t,” Frisk says, quietly, softly, as Chara stares down at the petals in their palm, breath a bit quicker and more shallow than it normally is, though they relax a bit at the sound of Frisk’s voice. It sounds like they’re trying to carry the world.

“I have to.”

They eat the flowers.

 

* * *

 

 

“What do you even care, anyways?” they ask one day while washing their hands, secure in their knowledge that the water rushing into the sink will cover up the sound of them talking. “What’s it matter to you, if I live or die?”

“Did you ever consider maybe I just care about you?”

“Nah.” They don’t even have to think about it before dismissing Frisk’s statement as ridiculous. That particular brand of stupidity is reserved for Asriel alone. “You barely even _know_ me.”

Frisk shrugs. “Maybe I just care about everybody. Or maybe I’m your guardian angel.”

“I don’t believe in angels,” Chara replies. Besides. Were angels real, nobody would think to send one to _them_.

“That’s too bad,” says Frisk. “This might be nicer if you actually thought I was real.”

The worst part is, Chara thinks they actually _mean_ it. Frisk’s voice settles inside them uncomfortably, their heartbeat stuttering just a fraction of a second before they plow onwards to drown it out. “What’s it matter if I don’t _believe_ in you? Either you’re real or you’re not. It’s not like my belief. or lack thereof, _changes_ anything.”

“Everyone needs someone who believes in them,” they say. “And now you’re the only one who _can_ believe in me.”

“Whatever,” Chara scoffs, twisting the water off with a sharp motion, but when they go to bed that night the seed of doubt in their heart has taken root and started sprouting leaves that taste like guilt.

They push them away. They have to keep moving.

  


* * *

 

 

“Why are you doing this?” Frisk asks, after Chara has shoved another handful of buttercups down their throat, the flowers mashed up and mixed with water because it’s easier to swallow them that way. It still makes them feel sick. (That, they remind themself, is the _point._ )

“You know why,” they reply once the urge to puke has faded some.

“Indulge me,” Frisk says. “Explain again.”

“If I do this,” they start, pausing to gather their thoughts, “If I do this they will be free.” _I will be free._ “I want them to be free. I want Asriel to see the sunrise, and the forests, and the ocean, and the stars… he’d love the stars, you know, I’m sure he would.”

“And what about you?”

 _I never wanted to be alive anyways. I don’t_ **_deserve_ ** _to be alive anyways. I just want everything to stop…_ The words pool up on their tongue, wanting to flood out, but Chara holds them back. Instead they say “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” and then, again, for emphasis, “It doesn’t matter. I want them to be free.”

“Have you ever bothered asking what they want? What _he_ wants?”

For the first time, there’s a spark of true anger from Frisk. Chara blinks. Frisk pushes onwards.

“Do you really think he can be happy knowing he’s helped you die? _Did you ever stop to consider what that would_ **_feel_ ** _like?_ ”

“That doesn’t matter,” Chara says. “He’ll be alive, and he’ll be free, and- whatever he’s feeling, he’ll get over it. He has his parents, and he’ll have the surface. He’ll be fine.”

“And what if he doesn’t?” Frisk says, relentlessly. “Survive. What if he dies? You don’t know what happens when you fuse a human and a monster soul. It’s never been done before. For all you know, the stress of your human _determination_ will crush him, Chara, you have no guarantee he’ll come out of this alive and you’re doing it anyways, you’re risking his life just so you can have revenge-”

Something inside Chara breaks.

“ _Shut UP,_ ” they shout, slamming their fist into the wall hard enough they hear something crack, “Shut up shut up SHUT UP it’s _none of your business_ you don’t know anything stop talking as if you KNOW ME!”

Their throat is burning with the force of their scream, their hand pulsing with pain but it isn’t enough; they let out a wordless shriek of rage, and sweep the lamp off the bedside table. The bulb shatters on the floor with a very satisfying sound. They step on it, shards pressing into the soles of their feet, and that’s good, that’s better, that’s almost enough. They rake their nails down their arm, catching on the scabs and pulling them loose until they’re bleeding again, letting it drip on the floor, revelling in the sharpness of the pain, the clarity it brings, heartbeat pounding in their head. The world is crystal clear and all edges. They turn to Frisk again, chest heaving, ready to get back to shouting, or crying, or accepting Frisk’s blubbering apologies-

“Are you done?” Frisk asks. Some of the colour has drained from their face and their voice is shaking, but only a little; there is no _fear_ in the way they look at Chara. Only collected acceptance, a sort of _Yes; I-know-you_ that rattles Chara to the core, and a hint of something else, something akin to a challenge.

“Fuck you,” Chara says.

“Nothing is going to get better through your death,” Frisk says, undeterred, and fuck them twenty times to friday.

What do _they_ know, anyways?

 

* * *

 

 

Hiding this particular injury from the Dreemurrs proves to be impossible - even if they mainly manage to keep themself from limping, they can’t jump or run like they used to, and it isn’t long before the blood seeps through their makeshift bandages. It’s not particularly discreet to be leaving bloody footprints everywhere they walk.

They tell Toriel they must’ve bumped into the table on accident, and didn’t notice the glass until it was too late. She doesn’t doubt them, though she tells them to be more careful in the future, and to tell her right away if they’re ever hurt again. They’re confined to their bed, told not to walk anywhere they don’t _absolutely have to_ until their feet have healed.

Normally Chara would have been upset at this sudden lack of freedom. This time they think it’s just as well, seeing as shortly after that they grow unable to leave their bed regardless, feeling like they’ll faint whenever they move too quickly. They can only periodically keep food down. It’s _working_.

They can’t help the spark of excitement they feel at that thought.

It’s almost poetic; slowly wasting away for the family that saved them. (Now it’s their turn to be the savior.)

“Don’t worry Asriel,” they whisper when he doubts, when he asks if they can stop. “I’m sure it won’t be long now. Just a few more times, alright?”

He nods, he grits his teeth, he does what they ask him to.

Lying is so very easy.

 

* * *

 

  


Everything in them is on fire, skin blistering at the slightest touch and stomach trying to turn itself inside out to get rid of the poison they’ve put there. They can’t stop themself from throwing up anymore, and when they do it’s mixed with blood, like from a curse in a bad horror movie. It’s not as pretty anymore.

It’s ugly, their death. Ugly and painful and drawn out.

They tell Frisk as much.

“Not what you imagined?” Frisk asks, softer than they’ve been in days. Chara thinks maybe they’re tired, too. They’re less solid these days, worn down, their skin ashen rather than dusky brown, light filtering through them so thoroughly that they don’t even cast the illusion of a shadow anymore. They feel less real now than they ever did, but that’s alright.

So does Chara.

“I knew it wouldn’t be pretty,” they tell Frisk. Their voice scrapes their throat raw. “But I chose this. I _chose._ ”

“Choices can change. People, too.”

“No,” says Chara, smiling wanly, “Not me, no. Can’t change. Could never change, was… always the same, was…”

“Yeah,” says Frisk, brushing an intangible hand over Chara’s forehead, forlorn, “Yeah. I suppose you were.”

 

* * *

 

 

Frisk redoubles their efforts to pick things up, but it doesn’t do them any good. At best, nothing happens.

At worst, their hand passes clean through the table, too.

“Why don’t you just give up?” Chara asks after seeing them fail so many times they’ve lost count.

“Why don’t you?” Frisk echoes.

Chara shrugs. The sudden motion makes them wish they hadn’t.

“Better off without me,” they force themself to say.

Frisk’s glare burns right through them. “Stop _lying_ to yourself.”

There’s no time for Chara to gather themself enough to reply before Frisk continues speaking, more subdued now, sounding like they’re trying to convince themself just as much as they’re trying to convince Chara. “I don’t _do_ giving up. I _won’t fail._ ”

Fair enough.

(When they say it like that, Chara almost wants to believe them.)

 

* * *

 

 

Chara isn’t alone much anymore. Asgore and Toriel are there as often as they can, keeping them company. Toriel’s tried to heal them - is still trying, even though she can’t see any results - and Chara thinks sometimes it’s almost working, but they make sure to ruin whatever progress she’s made as quickly as they can. They keep getting worse. Everyone around them grows more tired, more worn. The house doesn’t feel like a happy place anymore.

Asgore and Toriel still need to leave sometimes, can’t be there always, because they’re still the King and Queen, and there are still things that need to be dealt with, but Asriel…

Asriel barely ever leaves their side. Chara isn’t sure he’s even sleeping - they’re not conscious much, and he’s there every time they wake up. Every time…

“Look at him, Chara,” Frisk murmurs, and he’s right there, and how could they resist? He’s cradling their hand like it’s something fragile, and it’s not far from the truth - any sort of chafing brings them pain now, but they can deal with it, _they can deal-_

Asriel makes a sound, a muffled sob, and they want to reach out to him, but they can’t.

“Do you really think you can make him happy this way? Do you really think he could ever walk away from this being _okay_?”

 _He’ll heal_ , they tell themself (want to tell Frisk, but Asriel would hear).

“He can’t.” Frisk’s voice is like steel. Chara has never heard them be this forceful before. “He’ll never forget, he’ll never forgive himself-”

“Isn’t,” they rasp out, ignoring the way Asriel’s eyes snap up to them as soon as they make a sound, “His fault-”

“He thinks it is,” Frisk says, relentless. “ _Look at him._ He’s watching you _die_ and he thinks it’s his fault. Even if he survives this, even if your plan succeeds, he’ll never be able to be happy, having done this. It will weigh him down every single day for the rest of his life. He’ll be miserable.

“If you make him do this, he will _never_ be free.”  

They had wanted to show him the stars. Wanted him to see the ocean, endless widths stretching so much further than he could ever imagine. The underground is so unbearably small in comparison.

They try to say so, describe it once again, but it’s hard to tell how much of it is decipherable, how much of it they _actually say_ , as opposed to delude themself into thinking they’re already done saying. However much of it he hears, it makes him grip their hand harder. It hurts.

“I don’t want to see them, Chara, not-” his voice cracks, fades to a whisper, and that hurts more. “Not without you.”

If the room wasn’t so quiet they’d not be able to hear his next words, he barely makes a sound. “Please don’t go.”

 _I’m not going anywhere_ , they want to say, but that would be a lie.

 _We’d be together forever._ Lie.

_I love you. I love you and all I want is for you to be happy--_

Truth.

They just want Asriel to be happy. They just want Asriel to be _free._

But - if Frisk is right - if it really can’t be both, if they really can’t give him both happiness _and_ freedom, then-

“What should I do?” they manage, gaze flitting back to Frisk.

“Tell him to get Toriel,” they say immediately, a warm glow steadily growing in their eyes. “Tell her the truth.”

“...hate me…”

“I don’t hate you, Chara,” Asriel says at once, still choked up with tears. “I could never hate you.”

“He’s right.” Frisk’s voice is soft again. “They won’t hate you. They’ll just help. You’re going to be okay.”

With a sigh, Chara relents.

The relief on Asriel’s face, the speed with which he leaves the room to find his mother - maybe Frisk really _was_ right after all. Even if Chara is so scared they think they would rather be dead after all.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Frisk says, sincere and warm and even more relieved than Asriel. For a moment they look almost as vibrant as before Chara first made themself ill. The fear lifts, only just enough so they can breathe again. “I _promise_ you, Chara, it’ll be worth it. This is _better._ You can figure something out, you can find another way.

“ _Trust_ me.”

Not quite knowing why, they do.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

( _Chara had warned them, before they left._ **_I’m not the same person as I used to be, Frisk_ ** _, they’d said, knuckles going white around the locket on their chest._ **_I don’t know how I’d react to something like this. I can’t promise you it’ll work. I don’t know if I’d listen-_ **

**_It’ll be okay,_ ** _they’d said, smiling, always smiling._ **_I’ll_ ** **make** **_it work. I know you._ **

**_You know me_ ** _, Chara echoed._ **_… and if anyone can make this right, it’s you._ **

_Frisk’s smile had flickered, coming back a bit more subdued. They’d let their hands brush Chara’s face, their cheeks, smoothing down their hair. It was, of course, all happening inside their shared head. Chara did not have a physical body. Not in this universe. Not in this time._

_It still felt real._

**_I’ll miss you,_ ** _they’d confessed, like it was supposed to be some kind of secret._

 ** _I’ll miss you too,_** _they’d said, not knowing if it would be true. What happens to a timeline if its focus point leaves it unattended? Does it keep going on its own? Would there even be anything left to return to? They didn’t know. They’d never known. But they’d started over so many times, for so many reasons, and at least now there was the certainty, the solid foundation:_ ** _You’ll be okay._** **_It’s going to be worth it._** )

**Author's Note:**

> 6k words is, when read, so little. I assure you it felt much longer while i was writing it. depression's a bitch and the fact that i can't make this perfect is really fucking _bothering me_. i hope it was an enjoyable read regardless. 
> 
> the title is from a poem by Karin Boye: 
> 
>  
> 
> _The whole of my soul I have fixed to one thought,_  
>  hard, hard, so I felt it with my hand,  
> the whole of my soul I have hurled through the air  
> to you, far away,  
> If you see it lie like an asteroid fallen,  
> still after flight glowing in the sand,  
> if you walk past it in your vaulting rhythm.  
> then you are likely not thinking of me.
> 
>  
> 
> _The whole of my soul I have fixed to a single thought,_  
>  the whole of my soul lies heavy before your feet.  
> I myself am so empty it hurts and aches.  
> You, you my friend!  
> Do you not notice, or will you not notice  
> the thing that's been torn from its trembling roots?  
> Have you no use for my poor soul?  
> Am I just in the way again?


End file.
